Getting Past 'Hello'
by SoLittleMotivation
Summary: She knew they were broken- each and everyone of them- and that they all needed to stay strong somehow. She knew he was the most broken, she understood that he had to try the hardest to keep it all together. But Natasha didn't think she could make it if his way of doing that was blocking her out. And Clint didn't know if he could stay strong much longer. (Future rating change)
1. Drinking Alone

When Natasha first joined SHIELD, she wasn't expecting much. Actually, she hasn't been expecting to join SHIELD in the first place. She would have been perfectly content (alright, content was not the right word and neither was perfectly) to continue to run around Russia and generally make a mess of things. SHIELD had prevented that.

When she joined up with Fury's grand troupe of agents, she had not been expecting to spend most of her time attempting to shepherd a bunch of super humans (and, she supposed, an alien and Tony Stark) on world-saving missions.

And she was most definitely not expecting to make a bigger mess than anything she had made in Russia.

It started on the day the coffee machine in Stark Tower broke, three weeks and six days after the while manhattan fiasco. The whole morning consisted of getting a begrudging, and exceedingly grouchy as well as slightly hung-over, Tony to make a Starbucks run. (though he kept forgetting what everyone wanted and wound up buying sixteen scones and three coffees between the five of them because 'he got nervous')

That was the first morning Clint wouldn't look her in the eyes.

He'd walked into the kitchen, considered a scone, apparently deciding against it, then left, taking the elevator to his 'nest' on the roof. He didn't look guilty, though something about his posture was ashamed. His shoulders, which were usually pulled back in a show of defiance and pride, sloped forward, and his head seemed to follow the angle, his eyes glued insistently on the floor, making hasty greetings towards his fellow Avengers, barely even shooting a 'hello' in Natasha's general direction.

Natasha had seen him hurt, scared, and vulnerable. But he had never avoided her like that before. He looked at her a grand total of once that day. And even then, he had lied to her.

She had been on the roof, having attempted to give him his space all day, but been unable to sleep, as her concern worsened into the night. She had been trying desperately to get his attention. Such attempts had proved so futile that her desperation had grown to the point of her standing on a ledge, looking out at the glittering Manhattan skyline, and praying that Clint didn't allow her to go through with her unspoken threat.

He of course, did not. He'd stood next to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and lifted her off the ledge. Then, he had unwound his arms from her, turned her around, and focused his eyes on her forehead. In the darkness, his skin seemed unnaturally pale.

"Natasha," He'd spoken his words slowly, as if he were saying rehearsed lines that he couldn't quite remember, "I'm fine."

And then, quietly, he'd turned, and left her standing there, alone, in the cool darkness, her body still cold from his touch.

She'd stood there, silently, for several more minutes, before she, too, left.

The elevator ride to her was a blur. She found herself stumbling through the dark kitchen as JARVIS flipped the primary light on for her.

What she needed right then was a drink. She went to Tony's fully stocked bar, eyes bleary already with sleep that would not come and head swirling with concern, and pulled out the bottle of vodka that was always full- not even Tony touching it, the one that was the proof to the unspoken pact in the tower that the vodka was for the Russian, and absolutely no one was to touch it.

She ignored the glasses sitting on the bar's lacquered surface, and grabbed a straw, noting, with a dark and unfeeling chuckle, that it was a pink silly straw, and shoved it through the mouth of the bottle, after opening it.

Natasha sat on the floor, not bothering to even find a chair, and began to sip the drink, not really thinking, as she stared at the shiny, checkered tiles of the kitchen.

This was her moment of solitude, and she tried to wipe Clint from her mind. She tried to erase her concern for him and just focus on _not feeling_.

Natasha's moment was crushed, however, by Tony Stark, who shuffled in, just as tired as Natasha felt, and poured himself a glass of scotch. She watched him, vaguely detached, the bottle of vodka having begun its wonderful numbing of her nervous system, noting his neglect for mixing the drink with water.

He turned around, and almost tripped over her. "Natasha?!" He exclaimed, eyes widening slightly, "I didn't peg you for the 'drinking alone in the middle of the night' type."

She shrugged, not wanting to open her mouth, trying to keep her thoughts and emotions in check as she took another sip from the straw.

Tony sat down across from her, throwing back the scotch, eyeing the woman contemplatively, as if trying to see exactly what was happening behind her green eyes, "Well," he said, at last, "You _are _Russian."

She shifted her weight, eyes narrowing at him, "What is that supposed mean?"

He stared her down, reaching up and fumbling for the bottle of scotch, and, pouring himself another glass, he responded, "You know, I think. It's the same way with me. It helps ease the pain." He continued to look at her, and she saw something dawn in his eyes- as if something inside his head had clicked. "But it's not _your _pain you're worried about, is it?"

"His pain is my pain, Stark." Natasha stood, carefully, and, taking the bottle with her, made her way back to her room, leaving it at that, reveling in the false warmth spreading up her arms as the alcohol continued to take its toll.

She loved just how numb she felt.

**I think that made some sense. Everything will be clarified within the first five chapters- I'm just trying to figure out exactly what I want to do with this story. Review, please.**


	2. Keeping Promises

Natasha and Clint had both agreed on many separate occasions that there was no glory in dying obviously. That there was no heroism in ceasing to exist in a loud and true way. That the only way to make your death as painless and heroic as possible was to spare others the trouble of knowing that you were dying.

So when Clint awoke that morning, knot formed deep in stomach, he's pounding from the very worst nightmares he had ever experienced, heart racing, the expectation of death so near and imposing to him that he could feel its icy breath on his neck, he'd resolved to keep his mortality to himself.

He'd tried so hard all day to avoid Natasha. He'd figured he had thirteen hours before she got concerned. Before she began to suspect what was wrong with him.

Which, according to his watch, meant that he had exactly five minutes until the Russian would come up and try to get him to talk.

His fear was that he would. Every time he saw Natasha, the twist of mortality deep within in his stomach would undo itself and become a different kind of tug. He could not bring himself to call it butterflies.

Tasha had a way of pulling the truth out of him. Of making him feel something besides anger and drive and the need to fill humans chests with arrows.

And it was that thing he felt that made him so helplessly terrified of telling her the truth.

Three minutes,Twenty-three seconds.

He had resolved to keep his mouth shut no matter what she did. The voice from his nightmare seemed to be laughing at him, the harsh sound vibrating around his head. He could feel his knuckles involuntarily squeeze the shaft of the arrow he was holding even tighter. They were turning white with effort.

Thirty seconds. He reaffirmed his position on talking: Not to.

Twenty five. The laughter had turned to screams. He didn't need an image of her face to know whose they were. His brain supplied it anyways. Red hair soaked with blood, face even paler than usual. Screaming.

Fifteen seconds. Jesus, the suspense was getting to him. He ripped off his watch and threw it over the edge of the building.

Five? He wasn't sure. He wanted his damn watch back. He briefly considered diving off the roof after it.

The door that was the entrance to the roof flew open. He went back to counting down.

One.

Thirteen hours of mental preparation and still, this: wanting to run. Wanting to stay still. Wanting to hold Natasha and cry. Jesus, he was a pussy.

Her face was pale and her mouth set in straight line that read to anyone who didn't know her the way Clint did as 'impassive'.

But he knew that look. That look meant worry. Deep concern. _Fuck._

The feeling in his stomach, the one she caused each and every time he looked at her, worsened to the point of actual physical pain.

She tried everything to get him to talk to her. Coaxing. Crying. Threatening. Yelling. Whispering. Everything.

Finally, with a storm of angry Russian cursing, Natasha appeared to admit defeat. She walked away from him, feet dragging, and climbed to the edge if the roof. She told there, back straight, eyes staring forwards, teeth clenched.

Clint could picture her falling. He knew she wouldn't scream. He knew she'd just fall, like a rag doll off a ladder, and break, on the ground, like a plate thrown against a wall. She wouldn't yell for him, she wouldn't blame him, she'd just make him watch. It was a n unspoken threat to make him hurt more. He couldn't stand any more pain.

Slowly, as if in a trance, he moved towards her silhouette, placing his hands on her slim waist, trying to ignore the literal pain in his gut, the screaming in his head that wouldn't fucking stop, and the maniacal laughter that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

"Natasha," he had to force the words out, trying his very hardest to convince himself of the lie he was about to tell, "I'm fine."

He focused on her forehead as he spoke, knowing that if he looked into those eyes he'd undoubtedly crack, and kill her with him. His nightmares were his. They did not need to be hers, too.

He hoped she'd understand he was dying heroically. Natasha had to understand that he was doing what they'd always promised each other they'd do if they were dying- spare the other by never getting past 'hello'. Never breaking them. Just nodding and greeting and going on with life. It was an oath they had made- that breaking was for the weak and if one of them was going to do it then they were going to do it under the surface.

Clint turned, breaking his eyes away from the pale skin of her forehead, and headed back to his 'nest', forcing himself not to look back, the knot in his stomach tightening again, constricting him from the inside out, the laughter and screams growing almost unbearable as he lay on the cold cement of the roof, fingernails digging into the palms of his hands, and tried not to scream.

He couldn't shake the image of her blood soaked body from his mind, her screams of pain and terror following him into the cold, shattered darkness of his mind, as his body refused not to sleep, terrified of nightmares that followed Clint even into his waking hours.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, "Natasha, I'm so sorry."

Clint couldn't help him being broken, but he prayed he wasn't breaking her too.

**Um okay I guess that worked? Review. New chapter soon. Maybe.**


	3. The Bottle of Empty

Natasha's head hurt. Her bones ached and all she wanted to do was vomit all over Tony's expensive, designer furniture. Also his shoes. But that was an ordinary, every-day sentiment (though perhaps elevated by her excessive consumption of alcohol)

Unfortunately, she was having difficulties leaving her room. She was kneeling over a book of Russian poetry she must have opened the night before (she was having a hard time remembering anything beyond the first half of the bottle of vodka) and vomiting up the last week and a half's meals.

"Romanoff." Steve's stiff, business-like voice crackled to life over JARVIS's speaker system. Natasha struggled to staunch the flow of stomach acid rising in her throat. "Will you report to training this morning at 1000 hours?"

Natasha swallowed. "I am..." She winced as the pain in her head worsened, "Currently indisposed."

She swallowed again. Jesus fuck, how much vodka did she drink? She'd been using a silly straw, for God's sake.

"Natasha, you feeling okay?" Steve's voice softened, and she frowned at the sympathy there. Natasha felt like her head was going to explode.

"No." She kept her answer short. "JARVIS. Please turn the comm system off."

There was a click, and whatever Steve would have responded with was cut short. Natasha stood and stumbled to her private restroom, flinging the door open and falling knee-first on to the tile floor. Leaning over the toilet, she began to wretch again.

As her red hair fell in front of her face, she began to wonder what her body was trying to purge her of: alcohol or Clint.

Her throat burned with acid and her head swirled with memories. She found herself wishing for more vodka, despite the disgusting position she found herself in at the moment, and the unshakable feeling that she was somehow becoming Tony.

Standing, careful to wipe her mouth on her sleeve and to comb her hair with her fingers as to not look quite so disheveled, she attempted to keep upright as possible as she stumbled out her bedroom door.

More vodka, her barely-awake brain reasoned, would, in fact, keep this nonsense going longer, but it would continue to assist the dulling of the pain.

The elevator ride was long. The walk to the kitchen took forever, and she found herself hiding from Bruce as he wandered past, seeking out a cup of coffee from Tony's latest Starbucks run. She wondered why she was so ashamed for feeling.

She'd always thought herself above human emotions, that they were for children and lesser beings than herself. She preferred tearing herself up physically rather than emotionally. She found it easier that way.

Natasha stumbled to one of Stark's endless liquor cabinets and felt around. If he only had one bottle of fucking vodka, then he was a hell of a lousy excuse for an alcoholic.

No, he wasn't, she smiled slightly as her fingers found what she was looking for.

She pulled the bottle out of the back of the cabinet, wondering why it felt so light.

The bottle of vodka was not a bottle of vodka after all- it was a bottle of empty and some notebook paper.

She shook the paper out of the bottle, bleary eyes struggling to read what was written between the blue lines.

'This is an intervention' was scrawled in nearly illegible writing, (though Natasha didn't know whether or not it was actually messy or if she was still pretty drunk- though if she were to take a stab in the dark, she'd go with a little of both) followed by, 'Group therapy appointment- 12:00. Noon' Natasha checked the clock on the wall.

Did that say 11:30?

Fuck.

She pondered whatever the hell group therapy meant. Did it mean sitting in a circle on cheap metal folding chairs while Bruce scribbled down psychology mumbo-jumbo as she specifically said nothing, and Tony drawled on about the various types of liquor at his disposal, while Thor and Steve marveled at the wonder of the technology of the clipboard?

Her head pounded harder on the passing thought that that was probably _EXACTLY_ what 'group therapy' meant.

That's right. I updated.

**Thanks to Alec for editing for me, because I'm unable to speak English. Praise the writing gods. **


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